


Smoke & Mirrors

by ecroeuf



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Dark Fantasy, Drugs, F/F, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Magic Revealed, Mystery, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, rock and roll meets whimsical??, so much angst but like its a nesta fic so yeah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecroeuf/pseuds/ecroeuf
Summary: Nesta and her sisters were becoming one of the biggest female rock groups in the country when the band fell apart, her motivation with it. That all changes when, practically overnight, Feyre becomes a national superstar. But something's amiss among the glamour; something dark and sinister, and it's far too late to turn back before Nesta's realizes that she's been weaved in the middle.NESSIAN rock AU // starts out urban but gets fantasy later on
Relationships: Azriel/Gwyneth Berdara, Emerie/Morrigan (ACoTaR), Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron & Cassian, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly an ode to concerts because I miss them dearly.

* * *

**"One last chorus, I'll be singin' into  
Empty glasses  
No more music for the masses"   
** _\- Just A Lover, Hayley Williams_

* * *

**Prologue**

Nesta leans against the brick wall of the back alley of the Firebird Music Hall. It’s January and it’s cold, the thin polyester sleeve of the faux leather jacket she’d thrifted out of her sister’s closet sucks the wind and the crisp cold stone into her numb skin. A car horn cuts through the fog of the busy side street to her right, and she watches a foursome climb down and out the music hall’s concrete steps and into the cab of a waiting taxi. They sound drunk, stumbling and laughing their way through the city.

It takes her a few tries to click her lighter on, her cold fingers and frozen pockets delaying the Bic from igniting. Someone down the street is singing, loud and off tune, and she can hear the light vibrations of music from the building beneath her shoulders. She cherries a spliff as the cigarette shaped taxi car rolls from the curb and into the city.

She tries to relax into the sensation, her fingers shaking against the muscle memory, but there’s a subtle roar behind her eyes that hasn’t left in months. Years. 

A squeak as iron doors are forced on their hinges, and Elain’s head pops around the other side of the rusting olive door. Her long chestnut hair is curled around her shoulders, delicate features extenuated with a heavy hand of stage makeup. It swallows her up. Her sweet, round face looks like a painted doll.

“We’re on soon,” her eyes bounce from Nesta, to the smoke, to the alley beyond her shoulders, and back. Meek to a fault, Elain didn’t care much for Firebird – it was loud, sticky, and too raucous for her tender nature. In the three years they've played here, she's never joined Nesta in the damp alley for her smoke breaks, the shadows made her way too jumpy. Location be damned, though, the music still called to them. A gig was a gig.

“Ten of, right?” Nesta huffs, not for any irritation, but out of nerves. Elain smiles gently, and with a nod is gone back through the door. Once again Nesta is alone.

She tucks an elbow under one hand, foot taping. She feels a little dizzy, but she thinks that will stop once she’s in the chair. It usually does. The moments where she’s playing are of the few beautiful blissful moments when the roar stops. She just needed to wade through the thick moment of walking from this alley to the stage. That was the hard part. 

She pushes the spliff head against the brick wall to snuff it out. It was a habit that was slowly become routine that she smoke before shows, but she knew neither of her sisters approved. They knew better than to comment on it, but it still rang through the looks they shared with one another when she'd squeeze out of the green room to light up. Like she was the only one with drugs in the whole building.

Nesta figured it was better to head in now before Feyre came sniffing for her. It was embarrassing, the pep-talk gentle tone her youngest sister started adapting around her, and Nesta knew if she heard it tonight, she’d blow a gasket. But she doesn’t want to move. Can’t fathom the idea of stepping out onto a stage when she’s like _this._

She just needed to get through tonight.

The back door squeaks open and Nesta braces for the onslaught her youngest sister - and then braces some more - as a male figure strides into the alleyway instead. She’s not entirely trapped back here, she has a direct route that spills into the busy street, but her body is on high alert as the man clicks the door shut and turns. He halts mid-turn at the sight of her, and Nesta presses against the brick wall, forcing her posture to read nonchalance as she levels him a gaze.

“Oh, sorry, figured no one would be back here,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The voice is husky, like the crackling of a wood fire.

She doesn’t respond, but if her silence bothers him he doesn’t let it show. He shuffles off the concrete landing and holds up a pack of Newports. “You mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead,” she says. There’s a click of his lighter and then the sticky smell of tobacco smoke.

She lolls her head toward the street, keeping a side eye on the strange man to her left as she watched the cars zip past on the road. She feels the honey effects of the spliff from earlier smoothing over her brain, like a fog. The music in the hall pounds like a crescendo behind her shoulder blades, and it sings against her skin, like calling to like. Soon. She’ll be ready to go on soon. She just needs another minute to work up the motivation.

“You here with one of the bands?” The stranger’s rough voice cuts through the sounds of the city. She turns to observe him, smoking under the low backlight glow of the alley. He was tall, she suspected he had a foot or so on her.

“Something like that,” she says. She wasn’t trying for coy, just didn’t have the energy right now to prove herself. She’d met many music boys in her life; watched the puff in their chest when she’d tell them _I play drums_. Not all, but to some, it was a game. A battle ground where, to them, she had to prove her worth in the music world.

_Oh yeah, can you really smash them? A tiny thing like you?_

He nods, even against her cryptic statement, sucking in on his cigarette between large fingers. She realizes he’s rather handsome. A gruff kind of pretty boy - sculpted, open features and clean, dark hair tied back with a band. He was big, buff, probably played college football or something. He dressed simple enough, a dark short sleeve shirt despite the biting chill, and jeans. No school insignia though.

“I wish I was musically inclined,” he says, as if she’d admitted that she was, “I’m more here for the company of it all.” Puffs of cigarette smoke curl against the backdrop of his face. He smiles and it’s cute. Almost boyish. It’s a contradiction to the gruffness of him, softening him out.

“Company?” she huffs.

“The nightlife,” he says, and this time when he grins, it’s more fiendish. Even from her ten-foot distance she notices that it lights his eyes a little, like a comet. The half-smirk lifts a top lip, revealing a row of straight, white teeth. Something in her belly roils up against it. “I’m actually trying to nail a bouncer gig here.”

Makes sense, he’s built like a tank.

“You want to deal with drunk assholes all night?”

He shrugs, flicks ash toward the half-wet ground, “I want to deal with _people._ There’s something about the music scene that brings everyone together. Like you’re less likely to deal with rowdy assholes in a music hall then a bar or a nightclub. Everyone’s just here to listen to the music.”

Nesta doubted that theory, though she didn’t tell him that. She’d met her fair share of assholes in the music scene. Been pawed at, leered at, spit on, had shit spilled on her. Music, for whatever reason, pulled back a barrier for mischief. People were all the same after the sun went down, didn’t matter where they were.

The backdoor swings open and this time it’s Feyre’s head that pops around the corner, hair spilling over her shoulder in a thick braid, and her lips painted a blood red. She marks Nesta and the man with a startled expression.

“Well, good luck with that,” Nesta says, skipping around the man and his smoke cloud toward the door. She doesn’t offer him a parting glance, but she feels his stare on her all the way to the doorway. She feels Feyre’s leering stare, too, but Nesta ignores that too. Doesn’t matter. She’d never see him again after tonight.

“Good night,” he calls. The gesture throws her for a moment, but she doesn’t pause, doesn’t acknowledge it, as she slips through the door. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

Her sister, however, calls a goodbye to the strange man, shutting the door behind them. The look on her Feyre’s face bristles her a little. 

"Is that my jacket?" Feyre asks, and Nesta snorts, charging ahead to the stage. "You could ask, you know, before taking my clothes."

Feyre follows with expert foot behind the dark backstage area, toward the stage. Ironbird was set in an old furniture factory, with old wood floorboards and spacious rooms, so the trek from back door to stage wasn’t a maze. The last band had finished and the hall’s sound guys were helping them prep for their set. Elain was already on stage, her guitar slung around her slender shoulders, fiddling with the mic stand she’d use tonight. She was wearing a dress Nesta couldn’t dream of pulling off; lilac and layered down her arms and to her knees.

There was a small crowd gathered near the front, what was left from the last set waiting for the intermission to still and the sisters to start, and Nesta watches as Feyre strides confidently toward the mic stand in the front to start her check and mingle with the audience a little. She was full on tonight: skintight leather, smoked makeup, smooth, draping hair. Something about her sister always set a spark, and in turn, it lead to hungry eyes pouring over the rest of them. Elain could hold a crowd well; her meek beauty added a mystery to her that made up for the constant silence. She turned heads and affectionately held them.

People turned to Nesta after spending time in the candle of her sisters, and found barbed wire. She was too much bite. Too much spite. Try as she might – and these days she’d stopped trying for there was no point – she couldn’t land in the embrace of others. Not like her sisters.

Nesta watched the crowd push forward a little, anticipation growing. Something deep and ugly in her skittered at the sight, churning and roiling against her, so she took her place in the back. Sliding behind the drum set, relieved to be set behind its bulk, she set to pushing her hearing protection into her ears. It wasn’t her drum set, they didn’t bother to lug her own personal set from home to each gig, just used the house set. Nesta didn’t care. Never mattered to her if she was hitting her own personal drum set or a pair of turned over buckets – sound was sound, the dance moved on no matter the vessel.

She ran through the set list one more time in her head, fingers idly rubbing the smooth wood of the drumsticks in her hands. She could still feel the lingering rolling waves of the weed she’d smoked, and hoped it was enough to carry her through this gig. Briefly, she pictured the man from earlier, his boyish grin, and wondered if he were in the growing crowd that were obscured in the lowlight. She wasn't sure what to make of that thought. That whole conversation, though brief, set her on edge. She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable. Her fingers itched, she could feel the vibrations already, waiting to pour out. Soon. So soon.

She closes her eyes, listening. Listening to Elain’s light strumming, a small feathering tune to Feyre’s chatty greeting. The crowd as one, laughing to her sister’s witty prose, cheering as Elain’s tune picks up progression, finds a solid story. The first few chords of the first song on the set list. Nesta pulls in smooth, and soon Feyre’s voice overlays like a ribbon through the instrument. It was a practice, a dance. The beginning was the struggle, trying to fall into the rhythm, the muscle memory. As much as she hates the sight of the crowd, their cheers, their bobbing heads, their stomping feet all feed into her motion.

It was a prayer. A litany. A farewell.

Tonight was the last night Nesta Archeron was ever going to play.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

**“You called me from a payphone  
They still got payphones  
** **It cost a dollar a minute”  
** _\- Kyoto, Phoebe Bridgers_

* * *

2 YEARS LATER

 **_  
Thomas:_ ** _so what ur just done with me? 3:25pm_

 **_Thomas:_ ** _fuck you 3:31pm_

 **_Thomas:_ ** _all u do is use people 3:45pm_

Nesta pockets her phone with a sick feeling in her stomach. He’d been texting her nonstop since she left his place last night. Fucker.

Pulling the collar of her jacket closer to her cheeks, she hikes from the bus stop up the rolling hill toward the side street where her apartment building sits. There’s a burn in her calves; the once unholy trek home from work now a reprieve. She knows she should stop somewhere to pick up groceries since there’s no food at home, but she feels her phone vibrate in her pocket _again_ so she picks up her pace with new determination. There’s no way she can stomach anything right now.

Soon, too soon, she reaches the weathered wood staircase that leads her to her apartment door, their soft creaking under her feet a song welcoming her home. Wiggling her key into the deadbolt, she twists while she jimmies the door handle _just so_. It lets her in with a thick click of the wood and she presses the door softly shut behind her, but not before sliding the three extra door locks into place.

“I’m home,” she calls into the empty kitchen, tossing her keys on the table and shuffling out of her black diner shoes.

“Phone keeps ringing,” her roommate, Gwyn calls back, as Nesta meanders toward her bedroom. She finds her in the living room, settled in the middle of the couch like it’s her personal throne, thick, heavy books thrown about. She doesn’t look up from her laptop screen as Nesta passes through on route to her bedroom, too engrossed in whatever it is she’s working on.

“For me?” Nesta says through the open doorway of her bedroom, peeling off her work uniform.

Gwyn doesn’t respond, which is confirmation enough to the question. She grits her teeth, trying to tamp down her steadily boiling annoyance. If Thomas was calling the apartment like a psychopath, she was going to go ballistic.

She stands in the middle of her room, hands twitching. Her eyes scan the cache of strewn clothes littering the floor, her bed, her desk, until they land on the exact dress she'd been hounding for. An image flutters into her head of loud, pulsing music and Nesta dancing wild. A thick sea of strangers. Already, the pressing, heavy feeling in her chest starts to dissipate at the thought of it.

Tonight she’s going out.

Gwyn looks her up and down when Nesta emerges from her room again fully dressed, “Wow. You look hot.”

Nesta smiles, “You can come with me, if you want.”

Gwyn’s head is shaking before Nesta even finishes the sentence, the motion shaking her thick, auburn hair around her shoulders. Her expression is even as she says, “Can’t. Backlogged with homework.”

They both knew it was a lie - she wouldn’t come even if her schedule was free.

Gwyn was agoraphobic. She rarely, if ever, left their two-bedroom apartment. Slowly slinking towards her History degree entirely through her college’s online courses, she did remote work as a copyeditor on the side through some sort of freelancing gig she found through career forums.

They met through a Craigslist posting – Gwyn needed a female roommate to shave off rent, and Nesta needed a cheap, quiet place to live. They set up an interview (online per Gwyn’s insistence) and as soon as it was established that neither one of them was a human trafficking-serial killer, Nesta moved in.

In the beginning, they tiptoed around one another. Nesta was licking her wounds, and frankly, did not want any friends. She set up her work schedule so she was up before Gwyn, and home by the time Gwyn went to bed. Make her easy to avoid, so no contact necessary. Or so she hoped. Gwyn’s homebody behavior also led to an unpredictable sleep schedule; one day she’d be up working until 3am, the next she’d follow the typical 9-5. “ _I like to keep you on your toes,”_ she said.

Despite the irregularity, both in Gwyn’s personal habits, and Nesta’s unpredictable work schedule at the diner, somehow they ended up running into each other. Slowly, Gwyn became a center point in Nesta’s life. Everything initiated had been Gwyn’s idea, really. Truthfully in the beginning, Nesta felt bad saying no. Sure Gwyn couldn’t help her own isolation, but she wasinside by herself all day, so who was Nesta to deny her company?

It began with dinner – they’d cook something they both enjoyed and neither roommate had tried before (Gwyn’s idea). Later they graduated to setting up book club once a week, after finding out they both enjoyed the same type of cheesy romance novel. Gwyn showed Nesta the wonders of Yoga. Nesta gave Gwyn some dance lessons. On and on it went.

It didn’t help that they were so similar. Gwyn had the same type of dry humor as Nesta, the same type of unexpected snark that others tended to shy away from. They could take each other’s fire. 

“I thought you broke up with Thomas last night,” Gwyn says.

“I did, why?”

“You’re dressed like you two are going on a date.”

Nesta frowns at that, looks down at her outfit with a newer, more critical eye. When was the last time she wore this?

It shouldn’t matter, she’s entitled to wear whatever she wants but…she can hear her mother’s disapproving tutting in her head, a little voice calling her a hussy. For some reason, she thinks of draping lilac and “proper” hems.

She never really thought about how she looked around Thomas, that was one of the more beautiful things about being with him. He was the first relationship away from the critical eyes of her family – there was a freedom in being who she wanted around him, unhabituated, and him being completely receptive.

Now she just wonders if he was only in it for an easy fuck.

Their decent, to Nesta’s eyes, was gradual. He’d started only calling her up at weird hours; they’d gone from talking all day every day, to him texting her “you up?” at one in the morning. They weren’t even having conversations anymore. Well, they never really had them in the first place. In retrospect, he would just smile and nod while she talked, until she let him in her pants. Honestly, she broke up with him for lack of commitment – for using her like a fuck doll.

Plus she had a sneaking suspicion he was cheating on her, and there was no way she was going to stick around long enough to find out. He did not take it well, obviously.

“Did I really dress like I was going to the club while with him?” She asks.

Gwyn shrugs, and the movement instantly makes her feel better.

“I’ve never been to the club, so I wouldn’t know the difference,” Gwyn says turning back to her laptop, long fingers typing away at a steady pace. Knowing her, she could be working on anything from a paper for one of her classes or fan fiction based off the book they’d discussed last book club. It was Emerie’s choice last week and she has a taste for good slow burn – sometimes it inspires Gwyn.

Nesta turns towards the direction of the kitchen, “Has the phone been ringing a lot?”

“Practically all day,” Gwyn shuts the laptop with a click, and stretches her arms up over her head with a groan.

Almost as if in response, the trill call tone of the landline in their apartment cuts through the living room, and Nesta nearly breaks the plastic handle lifting it from the wall to answer, voice laden with venom.

“Listen, you asshole, quit calling me or I’m gonna call the cops.”

“Nesta?”

The voice on the other line stops her cold. It’s not Thomas, but light, feminine. One she hasn’t heard in two years. Well, outside of radio stations and commercials and T.V. shows.

“Hello?” Feyre says, “Did you hang up?”

“No,” Nesta says, pushing up against the counter, gripping it’s chipped edge.

“Oh, good,” her sister says, and there’s a hint of relief mixed in her tone, with a steady hesitation. “Um, I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

There was no way Nesta was about to tell her estranged sister about her boy problems.

“No, it’s fine,” she tries to stuff her growing annoyance. Why, of all people, _Feyre?_

Feyre clears her throat on the other line, voice timid, like she’s trying to soothe to a bear. As always, the effect manages to set Nesta on edge more, “Elain mentioned where you were living, and I found you in the phonebook so I wanted to call.”

“Why?”

There’s a pause on the other line, and Nesta can almost picture her words hitting, the surprised fluster of her sister’s face. She drums her fingers on the linoleum, scowling down at the countertop. When she realizes what she’s doing, she stops.

“I just want to see how you’re doing, I suppose,” Feyre says, finally. “The anniversary is coming up soon, and anyway, I wanted to ask you-”

“Yep, well, I’m peachy,” Nesta bites, cutting her off before her sister can continue. _What the fuck is this?_

Gwyn’s lithe form fills the kitchen’s entryway, her eyebrows pinched in concern, probably gauging from Nesta’s tone that the phone conversation was going south. She lifts an inquiring brow, but Nesta turns away from the scrutiny, her jaw locking.

“Oh. Good. That’s good, Nesta.”

Feyre’s voice is so small, so startled on the other end, and instantly Nesta is washed in guilt. She can’t take this. She hangs up, her heart flying, pounding a thick rhythm behind her ear. No matter what, somehow, she’s always on the battlefield with Feyre. Has her hackles raised, like the wounded dog they expect her to be. It’s half the reason why she _left._ She couldn’t understand why either of them couldn’t take the hint that she wanted to be left _alone._

“You alright?” Gwyn asks and Nesta starts at her soft voice, having forgot she was there.

“Yeah, just…you know,” Nesta says. It’s not eloquent. She can’t think straight enough to even begin to try talking through her thoughts.

Both of them jump when the phone trills again. Nesta’s shoulders sag, suddenly very heavy.

“You have to be kidding me,” Gwyn huffs, her eyebrows knitting together in annoyance as she glares at the phone, totally unaware it’s Feyre on the other line. Nesta picks up the phone, and clicks it back down. There’s no way she’s answering it.

“You still going out?” Gwyn asks, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Yep,” Nesta turns toward the fridge and pulls it open. She really should have stopped at the market on her way home – there was only stale beer and shriveled fruit in here.

“I was going to order a pizza. It’s Friday,” Gwyn adds. “Emerie’s coming over.”

Nesta’s stomach growls at the thought but instead she reaches into back and pulls out an orange, beginning the process of peeling the citrus. The sooner she eats it, the sooner she can slip out the door.

“That will be fun.” She shucks the orange peel into the compost Gwyn had jerry-rigged for the apartment. They’re going to try growing a vegetable garden with it on their death trap of a balcony come spring.

“I’m worried about you going out by yourself like this.”

“Just because _you’re_ too scared to go outside, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.” As soon as she says it, she regrets it.

Nesta immediately turns to apologize, but Gwyn’s smirking at her. Her friend is thick skinned, knows Nesta’s moods and rarely if ever means the shit that comes out of her mouth. They’ve flung worse at each other. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel like an absolute asshole when she snaps at her. The guilt keeps compounding today.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“I know. I’m sorry for prying,” Gwyn says.

“I’ll text you updates every hour. I’m just going dancing. I can’t – I need to…” Nesta huffs, and Gwyn nods, understanding. Nesta relaxes a little. She wonders when she’ll stop expecting things to be so difficult with her friends, because they rarely ever are. She opens her arms, a peace offering. “Tomorrow, I’m all yours.”

“I’ll see if I can work you into my schedule,” Gwyn teases, and turns to go back to the living room, “Have fun, be safe. I’d say don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but...”

Nesta smiles after her, before looking down at the orange in her hands, appetite gone. She realizes that she’s trembling.

Time to go.

* * *

House of Wind is her favorite nightclub because ladies get free entry on Fridays, and the bartender gives her half price on tequila if she buys him a shot to take with her. It’s house music – she refuses to go anywhere that has live bands – and it plays loud and steady, thrumming the parts of her chest that were empty and tight, like a massage. Two drinks down, she’s texted the group chat she’s in with Gwyn and Emerie her location, and a video of her wiggling in her bar seat to the beat of some fast, techno pop song. They text her back photos of the reality show they’ve been binge watching together.

It’s the weekend, so the club is packed, and she’s tucked into the throng of it all. Folding into the dark, electric blue, she moves to the music that seems to fill and compress the whole room. She feels arms and shoulders brush her skin, and occasionally has to worm herself out of a pushy grinding situation, but she’s left blissfully anonymous. The floor pounding, bass thrumming. Dancing is the closest thing that she’s come to drumming. She’s a vessel for the music, letting it rush through her like a conduit. It’s intoxicating.

Up until she feels the heady sensation of a set of eyes on her. It starts as a little voice in the back of her head, something she easily pushes to the side. She’s in a near capacity club, of course she’s probably being watched. But the nagging follows her to the bar, for a third and fourth drink. To the bathroom, in front of the mirror, swaying gently against the sounds of girls laughing, chatting, trying each other’s lipsticks.

Her phone vibrates against the band of her bra where she’d tucked it for the evening, and she pulls it out, expecting it to be her friends. It’s Thomas.

**_Thomas:_ ** _greyson saw you at House. 11:55pm_

 **_Thomas:_ ** _so u break up with me and now ur off to find someone else to fuck? are u kidding me? 11:55pm_

Nesta grits her teeth. Well, that explains the feeling she’d been having.

“Hey you alright, babe?” Someone asks beside her and Nesta turns to find a petite blonde eyeing her. Her light blue eyes flicker from Nesta’s face to the clenched way she holds her phone, with concern.

“Dump him, you deserve better!” Her friend pitches in beside her, a pretty girl, even shorter with a round face and full, thick curls. Her voice is a little slurred. Nesta smiles weakly at them.

“Way ahead of you,” Nesta snorts, brushing past them towards the door. “Have a nice night.”

The club feels too hot. The mass of people, once a reprieve, now a claustrophobic presence with the knowledge that Thomas’s asshole friends were in here somewhere, probably watching her like a hawk. Nesta makes her way towards the exit.

She’s outside the building, the cool night air soothing her sweaty face, when her phone starts to ring. The name on the caller ID sets her blood boiling. She slips into the alleyway between House of Wind and the set of rental buildings to it’s right for privacy, the line of people waiting outside the club to be let in eyeing her curiously.

She doesn’t say anything when she answers, just waits.

“Nesta?” his voice – timid – almost meek tells her everything she needs to know. He texted her all day. Hounded at her like a dog. Called her names. Spied on her. Expected her to come crawling back.

And she wasted _five months_ on him.

She hangs up before he can respond; blocks his number. Very nearly throws her phone on the ground. Nesta stands there, in the alley, fingernails digging into her palms. She wants to hit something.

“Hey,” A husky voice calls, and she spins on her heel, startled. She finds a tall, broad figure cutting through the back end of the alley. “You alright?”

She _really_ wished people would stop asking her that. She doesn’t bother answering, instead looking down at her phone, wondering if she should call her friends.

“Hey, wait, I know you,” the man says and she gives him a sardonic look as he snaps his fingers and points, “You’re that drummer girl! From the Firebird.”

She squints at him a moment, and he takes a step forward, making her heart leap in her throat. But he’s only shuffling into better lighting. It takes her a moment, but she recognizes him – the wannabe bouncer. He must have watched her play that night after all. She’s not sure why the thought of it makes her chest ache.

"Oh, hi," she says, because he's waiting for her recognition.

“We’ve got to stop meeting in alleys like this,” he smirks.

“Not my fault you have a thing for sneaking up on unsuspecting women.”

He laughs, and it’s a nice, thick sound, as he pulls his Newports from his jacket pocket. He offers them up to her, but she shakes her head.

“My name’s Cassian, by the way,” he says around the cigarette in his mouth. It must be the booze in her head, but something in her stomach flutters at the sight of his large hands sparking it up.

 _Cassian._ The name fits him.

Nesta looks up at the strip of blue-black sky overhead, watching the tendrils of his cigarette smoke dissipate over their heads.

“So, you guys playing around here this weekend?” he asks. It takes her a moment to catch up to what he’s means. Weirdly, it seems like he has no clue who her sister is.

“No.” She says, flat, wrapping her arms around herself. She doesn’t know why, probably because today was a whirlwind of emotion, but she adds, “I don’t play anymore.”

She looks at him and his eyebrows raise, “Really?”

He takes her silence as confirmation.

“That’s a shame,” he says. “You could really hit ‘em.”

She fidgets, uncomfortable. The compliment sends a thrill through her, which sends off a warning in her brain. She was enjoying his attentions far too much. But it had been a while since she’d heard a compliment about her music; it soothed a part of her she didn’t know needed balm.

They stay like that, quietly listening to the bass thumping from the club, the chitterling of patrons waiting to go in. She rubs at the stamp mark they put on her left hand upon entry, smearing the bright blue ink across her skin. Nesta looks up to find him staring at her, hand in his pocket, other lightly flicking the ash of his cigarette. He tilts his head upon her notice, eyes dancing curiously, and she catches her breath, something coils tight. Stupidly, she hears Thomas’ words in her head.

_“So you break up with me and now you’re off to find someone else to fuck?”_

“Well,” she pushes off the brick, wobbling a little, “I’m heading home now. My roommates are expecting me.” She adds, just in case this guy is a weirdo and decides to tail her or something.

“It’s kind of late, let me at least walk you home.” He snuffs his cigarette out on the side of the brick, pockets it, probably to toss elsewhere. It’s a detail about him that is suddenly so attractive to her she has to look away.

“That’s presumptuous of you.”

“Call it a conscious thing.”

“Listen, dude, I’m not here to satisfy your hero complex,” she snaps. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I guess so,” he says, but amusement dances behind his eyes. “Well. Off you go, then.”

“Yep.” She heads toward the street, peering at him over her shoulder. “Off I go.”

He smiles, holding up a hand in a half wave.

“Goodnight, Nesta.”

She shakes her head, makes her way up the street, toward the main road that leads to her apartment, trying to shake the spell he’d put on her. She’d already wormed her way out of one relationship, no way was she diving back into men. 

She's nearly home when she realizes that she never told him her name.

When she gets home, Gwyn and Emerie are on the last episode of the series they had been binge watching, so she crawls in beside them to watch. She can't pay attention to the figures on the screen, though, because his stupid eyes keep flashing back to the forefront of her thoughts. After Emerie goes home and Gwyn stays up to work on a paper, Nesta washes her face, brushes her teeth and curls tight, tight into a ball under the thicket of her sheets. His face spins around and around in her head, and honestly it's mortifying. They barely spoke - he did most of the talking, really. Why was she so enamored? She squeezes her eyes shut, tosses back and forth, until finally sleep takes her under. 

She forgets all about Cassian and his stupid magnet eyes the next morning, however, because when she wakes up international popstar Feyre Archeron is sitting in her kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! rollin along here!! hope ur well :)


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